Day in the Life (working title)
by Domino Nermandi
Summary: Draco finally manages to make a decision, but it's the one most likely to kill him... Draco/Harry *SLASH*
1. Escape

The dark was all around everywhere-everything, crushing what little space he had imagined around himself

Warnings & Disclaimers: This is SLASH. Consider yourself well and truly warned, saying it twice should be enough. All standard disclaimers apply; none of these characters are mine, all situations are fully fictional and probably not even possible in the universe they were created in. This is just for fun.

~~~

The dark was all around everywhere-everything, crushing what little space he had imagined around himself... Like molasses only no sweetness here, only the bitter taste of sharp winter night on his tongue, in his brain...

His feet could not find purchase, everything was slipping, sliding, frantic movements, scrambling for what seemed like little patches of eternity and never going anywhere. Every step attempted forward took him stumbling backwards, down and away... Weakness suffused him, was him. His limbs were useless, sluggish at best and impossible to maneuver more often then not.

Blundering forward, through the dark, both away and towards the darkness and blood and madness and terror. Away again, only to return once more... His faltering steps would again tattoo a circle, but he had to TRY. Merlin knew, there was nothing else for him to do.

The only thought on his mind, beyond even the blood and pain and ever-present horror, was escape. So simple it had seemed before, to just put one foot in front of the other and walk away, just walk away... Just slide, stumble, trip, fall, fly away from the madness. It was never that simple. Never could be that simple. His father might kill him, he knew that now, but it didn't concern him, somewhere apart from his animalistic brain (stumble, pain, run, trip, up up up get up, pain, more pain, away, get away, move forward) he knew he wasn't long for this earth, knew that his father would find him.

He couldn't bring himself to care.

The earth was sliding away from him even as he hit it full force, his cheek against the dirt, a thigh aching from the tree root it had been so ruthlessly slammed into. Not for the first time since his journey started, he considered not rising. Just letting them find him here, broken and bloody, lying on the forest floor, ready and willing to die. But it wouldn't be that easy, no it would never be that easy, it was too late already, he knew that now and if he had been himself he would have cursed his own stupidity, his ineptitude. To dangerous to live free, to important to die. He had trapped himself in this; he was the only one to blame...

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Even though he tried so hard to save me...

The first coherent thought in kilometers, but he brushed it aside. Groaning and whimpering he rose, palms aching where they supported him from the ritual slashes dug deep into the flesh, he could feel the dirt coating the gashes and knew he'd have scars, terrible scars, but he didn't care. He deserved it. He welcomed the pain as he crawled back to his feet, clutching to the very tree whose roots had made him fall. He drank in the sensation of his screaming nerves, reveling in agony.

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Footsteps...

Don't turn, you'll only fall.

Forward—

No escape now, coming closer—so stupid—truly thought—no escape, never...

Good try, though, bloody good show...

He stopped.

Exhausted, battered, and thoroughly alone, he slid down to the ground once more to wait. Wait for the approaching footsteps, wait for the end, wait for the pain to begin again.

Without warning—he was inspired.

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One last try... One last trick up my sleeve... Please... 

He searched his robes with numb, bloody fingers and found what he was looking for. The footsteps were running now, they must've used a search spell, must know where he was. Didn't matter. This would only take one second.

He pointed his wand at himself and whispered one word, then disappeared.

If he had been feeling himself, he may have stopped to think that apparating off grounds was impossible, that there would be spells to trace him. But he couldn't even remember where the grounds he'd lived all his life ended anymore, had no way of knowing if he was on common land, no way of knowing what wards were here. There was no time, no distance for him anymore, only the thought of escape. If he was in a normal state of mind, he might have stopped to see who it was that followed him.

But as it was, Draco Malfoy was not feeling like himself, and never thought to pause. 


	2. Little Miracles

Draco's first thought was that he failed

Draco's first thought was that he failed. He held his blood smeared wand up in front of him and simply waited for the source of those approaching footsteps to appear, wondering if any of the spells he knew would even work for him at this point.

For a moment, he wondered about the fact that didn't really care if he lived through this or not.

Eyes straining past the trees into the ever-present darkness, Draco's wand hand began to tremble with the effort, then spasm, then finally falter. With one last shudder, his wand dropped to the forest floor. Wearily, he concentrated on holding his head up—he would at least meet his future with _some_ semblance of that famous Malfoy control—but was forced to rely on the tree behind him to hold him up when a spasm overtook him and left him shaking helplessly.

Completely humiliated now, Draco only wished that whoever it was that belonged to those footsteps would hurry up. Head lolling back against the tree, he listened intently, trying to ascertain how close his death was.

After a few minutes, it became obvious that the only sound to be heard was the rushing of blood in his ears and the whisper of warm summer wind through the trees.

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Warm summer wind?!

He inhaled deeply, and took in the scent of fertile soil and freshly cut grass. Opening his eyes as wide as he could, he titled his head up—and for the first time in a year and a half, saw stars in the sky that weren't hanging over Hogwart's.

He was out of Malfoy Manor. Away from the chill and clouds that had overtaken the grounds since it was made the base of Death Eater operations, a year and a half ago. Away from the sound of the Muggle prisoners slowly going mad in the dungeon. Away from the blast of cold that would issue forth from every pore of stone when Voldemort was in a venomous mood. Away from his father alternately simpering and demanding. Away from having to be a Death Eater's son. 

Away from having to be a Death Eater.

A morbid smile etched itself onto his face, and he picked up his wand once again, pocketing it, not trusting his own hands to keep it safe.

One hand still in his pocket, to guard his wand, Draco moaned and attempted to rise.

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This must be the stupidest thing I have ever attempted—and that is quite an accomplishment.

Cheered by the feat of linking a full, coherent sentence together without having to think to hard, Draco somehow found the strength within him to stand.

Looking around, he was dimly amazed.

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I apparated rather far, from the looks of it… The lights over there… They look Muggle, it's to bright, and white, and steady.

On sluggish feet, held up by each tree he passed, Draco walked towards it.

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I wonder how they stand it… It looks so… stale…

That's it… Just put one foot in front of the other…

Don't think about it, just do it… 

Merlin's Beard! Can't feel my feet under me…

Don't think about it! Just go...

The lights swam in front of him, never growing any clearer, only brighter and larger. For a few minutes, everything was almost completely dark as his vision went gray, but he swam back into full consciousness just in time to exit the tree line and stare up at…

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That must be a Muggle house… Never seen one like this before, up close… What on earth are those horizontal lines running across it? Maybe some kind of rain repellant?

He was kneeling on the ground in the backyard of someone's house, unaware of the fact that he probably needed urgent medical attention. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, Draco Malfoy knew how to get medical attention in Muggle society about as well as he knew how to mate a grindylow with a phoenix. He merely stared up at the bright, crisp squares of light above him that he knew must have been windows.

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Actually, it's rather pretty… The color of it… Like a ray of starlight concentrated to fill a room…

Abruptly, a light flickered, and Draco frowned.

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Not supposed to do that… are they?

Then he noticed something else—the light was green.

The color of a wizard illumination spell.

He had a thought forming in his mind, but he didn't dare take it too seriously. He wouldn't hope, not after all he'd lost tonight, that he was still worthy of a miracle at this late date. But the window in front of that flickering green light opened, and even before he heard that familiar voice say, "Just be back before dawn, okay, Hedwig?" he knew where he was.

4 Privet Drive. Home of the Dursley's and sometimes their wayward nephew… Harry Potter… Draco's one-time lover.

"Harry!" Draco attempted to say, but his voice had been shredded with screaming earlier, and he wasn't anywhere near regaining the ability to produce sound.

The figure in the window turned back into the room.

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Harry…

Slowly, he crawled through the backyard, over the freshly cut grass (_probably cut it under the baking sun at noon today,_) and under that faintly glowing window.

Exhausted, and nearly out of his mind with pain that assaulted him relentlessly, he collapsed once more, to lie against the Dursley's aluminum siding.

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Have to get up there…

Wearily, he cast his eyes up to the window.

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Can I?

Is it even possible?

Might as well try…

Worst comes to worst…

At least I'll die near him…

And maybe he'll know…

Panting harshly with the effort it took him, Draco rose to his knees. Then, inch by inch, he dragged himself up to stand on feet that shuddered and spasmed with the effort of supporting him. Even putting his full weight on the wall, he couldn't stop his legs from shaking, but he supposed that, either way, it wouldn't matter for long. For a few long minutes, he tried to close his fingers around his wand, but it seemed his hand just wouldn't listen to him. Finally, he managed to seize it in fingers that trembled almost as violently as his legs and pointed it, once more, at himself.

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Wingardium Leviosa…

Nothing happened.

He could have sobbed. He knew he wasn't speaking the words, but he was experienced enough that he shouldn't HAVE to…. Thinking them should have been enough.

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Once more… 

TRY!

He took in a deep, rasping breath and thought of Harry, but a little way above his head.

**__**

Wingardium Leviosa.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Draco was ready to fail after coming so far. Then suddenly, he was lurched off his feet, and began to rise slowly. For the first time, Draco felt the effort that magic cost—the muscles around his temples and chest strained, and his mind felt like it was being contorted into some impossible position. But he never released his wand, never stopped concentrating.

Finally, he was able to look into Harry's bedroom.

And there he was, hair untidy, glasses sliding down his nose, looking at a badly battered book, sitting on his unkempt bed.

Draco had honestly never seen a more beautiful or welcome sight.

Shaking, he raised his wand hand, and rapped at the window.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	3. Through Glass

A/N: I am looking for a beta-reader… If anyone wants to volunteer, or can point me in the right direction, I'd be much obliged, thanks

A/N: I am looking for a beta-reader… If anyone wants to volunteer, or can point me in the right direction, I'd be much obliged, thanks.

Chapter 3: Through Glass

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The Wronski Feint can, in fact, be executed on any number of vintage broomsticks, though the peril of using older models has been proven time and time again. For example, Forsley Elgard, a successful Chaser for the Chudley Cannons, once lost control on the infamous dive and…

****

Tap tap.

Harry adjusted his glasses on his nose, the barely audible tap on the window immediately translating to him as Hedwig's return, "That wasn't very long—"

The words died on his tongue as he rushed over to the window and threw it back open.

"My God, Draco…"

He never even took the time to think about the last, bitter words that they had said just before Harry had boarded the Hogwart's Express at the end of term only four-and-a-half weeks ago. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Draco's ribs just in time for the exhausted boy to lose control of his spell. Had Harry been only instants slower, Draco surely would have plunged down to the cement patio below.

Head nodding on a pencil-thin neck, Draco seemed incapable of understanding Harry for a moment, his eyes glazed in intense effort. He didn't respond as Harry dragged him bodily into the room.

"What on earth…??" Harry murmured. Draco looked up at him with the eyes of a wounded beast and opened his mouth, looking surprised when nothing happened. Again, his mouth gaped open, and Harry heard the sickening wet sound of his lungs rasping air in past his abused vocal chords. Looking disconcerted, Draco was about to try again when he began gagging.

"C'mon, let's get you over here…" Harry dragged his silver-haired companion over to an unadorned chair that stood in the corner. Collapsing into himself like a rag-doll, Draco flopped onto the seat, gasping and choking. Harry, attempting to be comforting, tried to rub a hand on his back, but found to his dismay that it came away bloody. Turning back to look at Draco, Harry was shocked to find that blood was slowly trickling down his chin as well.

"You are a mess…" Finally meeting his eyes, Draco stared at Harry for a moment, then merely nodded, a miniscule tilt of his head that looked like it took an immense effort to execute.

Adrenaline slowly ebbing away, Harry took a moment to take in all of Draco's injuries.

It wasn't pleasant.

It looked like he had been tenderized, then filleted, then flambéed. That was too many cooking terms for Harry's comfort. Draco's lower lip was swollen and bloody, his silver hair was ruddy and stained from head injuries, blood trickled in steady streams from his nose and mouth.

That was just his face.

Blood coated Draco's palms, as if he had been forced to clutch handfuls of razorblades. His back was a slick of crimson over a robe that had been slashed to ribbons and his feet…

His leather boots looked like they had been eaten through with acid at some point, the side of one boot and the toe of another were gone. Where Draco's left foot poked through the remains of his shoes, it was a mess of blisters and thick, noxious liquids.

Cautiously, Harry leaned over his companion and lifted his robes slightly, to find that the right ankle had swelled to unnatural proportions. Whether it was from another injury or from poisoning, Harry couldn't guess. Draco didn't seem perturbed by being manhandled. In truth, he had merely gone back to staring up at the ceiling with eyes that only reflected.

He had the glazed look of a man who had nothing left in him… An empty soulless shell.

Harry rocked back on his heels and for a moment, could only stare in dismay. Finally resolving something in himself, he leaned forward and placed a careful hand on Draco's unbruised cheek.

"What did they do to you?" Harry whispered.

Draco turned into his hand and fixed him with his void gaze, "N'thing… I d'n't… d'serve…" 


	4. Internal Bleeding

A/N: Okay, I HAD to post a chapter… This is still the "rough" version… I'll inform all of you when the edited version goes up on fictionalley

A/N: Okay, I HAD to post a chapter… This is still the "rough" version… I'll inform all of you when the edited version goes up on fictionalley.org. Until then… I hope this tides you over… Took me a week to write… This chapter just wouldn't end! Enjoy.

Chapter 4: Internal Bleeding

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Ce n'est pas possible… Ce n'est pas possible, et ce n'est pas important… mais…

It happened. It did. But I still…

No comprendo. **No comprendo nada.** No comprendo porque…

Just… 

The lashes… Bright lances of pain, and bright fury, righteous anger set and distilled and confined into him until he felt like a molotov cocktail, set to ignite. He was controlled explosive.

He was dynamite.

That's why Harry loved him.

That's why Dumbledore picked him.

He remembered vividly the pain, the piercing agony of it, white liquid screeching through every molting piece of him.

__

How does he do it? How does Harry do it? Endure the pain without speaking… To know that kind of hatred directed at you, to have an easy way out… and not to take it, not to give in to it. To fight for the ideals that make you who you are… To have_ ideals _being_ what you are… To be selfless and sacrificing… Is that how it feels? The lash of a whip? The slice of a knife?_

He thought for a moment.

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Being good, is it like… Is it like branding flesh?

He shuddered at the memory, and never thought that perhaps he already knew what being good felt like because he _was_ good. He never considered the option. Because-

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I'm not. I don't know why he loves me… If he does_ still love me… _

His thoughts were interrupted by a bolt of agony. He clenched his teeth against it, refusing to utter a sound. It would do no good to scream, his throat would only torment him further. After a shudder, he realized that he was alone in the room.

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That's alright… He thought weakly, _It's okay. I knew he didn't love me… That's the one part of this whole sorry mess I did right. I made sure he hated me, I made sure he didn't care._

The cold was seeping into him, along with the darkness. His flesh was chilled wax paper pulled taut over his pallid, emaciated frame. Dark figures danced and leapt and crept ever nearer at the border of his vision.

He wanted to call out the name of the only person he had ever voluntarily loved, but he didn't have the voice. He could only sit, immobile in his chair, praying that Harry wouldn't hate him enough to leave him there. Alone, in the one place had imagined himself in…

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But I only wanted to be here because he would be here… Please, please, please…

You'll take the hurt away, won't you, love? Won't you save me, please?

__

Please…

Dark in here… getting darker… and cold… Always cold…

The muggles screaming in the basement… One night… Wasn't he screaming for a blanket? For his wife? Then the cold, the cold again, always cold, always cold then laughter, mocking laughter then… The body, in the ceremony, the Muggle woman, they wrapped her in a blanket for the ceremony and I asked them what it was there for and they laughed and father's eyes danced and my mind kept saying no and my eyes kept saying yes and it never ever ended even when voldemort was done and everyone had left the room and I had left the room and still it wasn't over still the body of that violated woman lying in her dirty blanket on the ballroom floor and it wasn't over for her never over for me never over never over till its done

"Draco?"

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never over till its done and I will wake up and be somewhere else be someone else where it wont be so dark or so cold or so terrifying and I will wake up in light and in sunshine but that will only happen when I'm dead because I will never ever get there now, cant ever get there now don't know the directions don't know the way maybe he could show me but he left

"…Dr-Draco?…"

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he left and he's not coming back and I'm all alone all alone and he left just went away because he hates me because he knows me because I'm never part of the plan I'm always part of the plan that doesn't involve me he hates me just like I hated him first - he hates me just like dad just like everyone he hates me and he left like everyone left like mom left like pansy left like I left he's gone...

What's on my face?

Harry had knelt in front of Draco and placed a hand on his cheek.

__

Beautiful… you're back.

Draco wanted to ask where he had gone, why he had left, but he couldn't have spoken even if his throat was working. All he could do was stare into pine-green eyes, at deeply tanned skin, at hands that had joints like knobs and looked like sixteen summers of backbreaking work compressed. Hands that were no stranger to handling bricks and trowels and hammers. Hands that were clean, even with the dirt always trapped under the nails because they were hands that had never killed. Hands that were warm; tough but smooth. Hands that felt _real_ resting against his cheek.

Distractedly, Draco noticed Harry murmuring an incantation, but he couldn't be bothered to tear his attention away towards sound. Instead, his eyes drank in the sight of the hand resting so casually on his knee, his whole being focused on the warmth radiating out from that point on his cheek where Harry touched him. For an instant, all the aches, all the pains faded away, and he was left aware only of the warmth.

"Is that a little better?"

__

Little better, only a little better… Just a fraction of improvement, just a modicum of change.

A little better, but still never good enough.

There was a sigh, "Draco?" Harry spoke with the resigned tone of a person forced to converse with a brick wall.

"Much… better, thanks." To his surprise, Draco meant it. His throat still felt sore, but he no longer tasted blood in his mouth, couldn't feel the ragged shreds of vocal chords where they had torn. But the moment of respite was brief. With his throat feeling absolutely joyous in comparison, the other aches and pains returned at twice their previous intensity.

Finally able to voice his pain, Draco did so with great gusto, groaning and murmuring, muttering oaths and expletives. After a few moments of rejoicing in hearing himself speak, Draco trailed off, "…fuck fuck fuck fuckety fuck fuck fuck…"

A thumb tenderly brushed a bit of dust off his cheek, "As intelligent and stimulating as this conversation is, I think I need you to talk to me so we can go about cleaning you up." 

"I didn't mean it." Draco rasped out, one hand clasping his throat as if to hold it together, "None of what I said, I didn't mean _any_ of it."

He locked eyes with Harry and didn't have to worry about the fact that he wasn't making any sense, Harry just _knew_.

"I figured that one out a while ago. In fact, it only took an hour after the Hogwart's Express left to do it. I realized you weren't there, and spoke with Hermione…" Harry swallowed, his eyes glimmering behind his glasses, "I wanted to owl you so badly… But I knew… What might happen if…"

Draco raised one shaking hand to rest it on Harry's cheek, leaving a smear of blood, "It was staged, the whole fight was staged. I never wanted to argue, I wanted you to _know_, but Dumbledore knows you and he knew…"

Harry caught Draco's hand and held it to his face just as it was about to drop from weariness, "—he knew that I would be stupid and try to involve myself. Which I would have. God, Draco, look at you… I would've done anything to keep this from you…"

"This was my decision." Draco swallowed, "'Sides, it doesn't matter. I've fucked up royally." Abruptly, Draco began to convulse with hacking, strained breaths, it took Harry a moment to realize that he was coughing, not sobbing.

"C'mon. I guess I'm not as good at that spell as I thought… Try not to speak…" Harry bundled Draco up in his arms and thought belatedly about putting a silencing spell on the room. He could only thank his lucky stars that he had installed a permanent one earlier in the summer, "We've got to fix you…"

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That, Draco thought to himself, still convulsing, _May be harder then you think._


End file.
